Grief of Cold
by StarSpray
Summary: and now there was nothing left except Elwing, and Vingilot, and his mariners, and the Silmaril, and one last wild, desperate chance.


_There's Grief of Want – and grief of Cold –_  
 _A sort they call "Despair" –_  
\- Emily Dickinson

* * *

He wasn't sure she was even aware of it, the way she leaned over Vingilot's railing, the way she stared into the waves. The look on her face was hard to decipher, even for him. Eärendil had never seen such an expression on Elwing's face, but it still seemed familiar…

It came to him all of a sudden, two weeks after Elwing had flown into his arms with the Silmaril blazing on her breast—that expression, he'd seen it after Gondolin. Not everyone who had escaped the orcs and balrogs had made it to Sirion, and not everyone who died on the way had died of exposure or hunger. Some had just lay down and given up.

Eärendil had to go below deck to catch his breath, doubled over in his cabin until his lungs agreed to expand again, and his heart stopped racing. She'd told him what she'd done, but he hadn't truly _comprehended_ it until now.

Elwing had tried to _die_.

It took perhaps an hour for someone to come looking for him. Eärendil forced a smile onto his face and made some excuse about needing to get out of the sun for a while. When he finally returned to the deck, dolphins were leaping out of the waves and chattering away, apparently conversing with Erellont, who was laughing and strumming his harp while Aerandir and Falathar swung around the rigging. The wind had changed, and he could smell rain in it.

Elwing was curled up now at the prow, staring at the clouds on the horizon, her own storm-grey eyes unblinking. She did that a lot, too.

Eärendil swallowed a sigh and went to the helm. They'd strapped the Nauglamír to the mast, where the Silmaril shone like a star. The necklace itself had been damaged, somehow, warped and rent, many of the lesser jewels missing. It must have been a result of Ulmo's power pressing in on it and on Elwing as she was transformed into a bird. Eärendil found himself staring at it, sometimes, thinking what a shame it was that such a beautiful piece of craftsmanship had been dragged into this mess. His cousin Finrod Felagund must have looked splendid indeed, wearing it as he held court in Nargothrond.

Nargothrond. Gondolin. Hithlum, Dor-lómin, Dorthonion, Menegroth, Sirion—all gone up in flames, destroyed and desecrated, their people slaughtered. Finrod, Orodreth, Fingolfin, Turgon, Thingol and Melian, Dior and Nimloth and Beren and Lúthien and Elurín and Eluréd—and Elrond and Elros. Eärendil stared at the Silmaril, and understood exactly why Elwing hated it so much, even if he couldn't muster that kind of feeling himself. He just felt tired.

When he finally turned away, he had to blink spots out of his eyes. Erellont was still playing, but he wasn't laughing anymore, instead peering at Eärendil with a furrowed brow. Eärendil summoned another smile and went to the prow to sit beside Elwing.

She stirred, blinking rapidly a few times before focusing on his face. Immediately she leaned into his side, and Eärendil sighed, dropping a kiss to the top of her head. He didn't ask what she had been thinking about. Most often she claimed to have been thinking of nothing at all. Sometimes he suspected she knew he really didn't want to know.

Now, though, she asked, without looking at his face, "What do you think will happen to us when we die?"

Eärendil flinched. He couldn't help it. _When_ , she said, not _if_. "We may yet make it," he said.

"I don't mean—my mother will come back, someday," she said. _And your mother_ , she may as well have added, though she didn't. By this time even Eärendil wasn't fooling himself into believing Idril and Tuor had really found a way. Not after so long looking himself. "But what of my father? What of my brothers? What of—" She stopped.

"I don't know," Eärendil said after a moment. He didn't fear death, exactly, and the unknown had never held any dread for him, either—though lately he wished it did. Maybe then he would never have left Sirion. He would have been there when the Sons of Fëanor came. Elwing would not have jumped if he'd been there. If he'd been there, their sons would still be alive.

It was just—he'd always thought there would be _time_. Even as the Shadow in the north grew, Sirion had thrived, and he hadn't thought—well. That was the problem. He'd never stopped to think. He'd thought Sirion, and Elwing, and their boys, his beautiful wonderful sons, he'd thought they'd always be there to come home to.

Only he'd been wrong, and now there was nothing left except Elwing, and Vingilot, and his mariners, and the Silmaril, and one last wild, desperate hope.

"They're all gone," Elwing whispered, staring again unblinking at the storm clouds. Aerandir and Falathar were debating loudly over something to do with the sails, and changing winds. "Everyone I ever loved is gone." She shivered as the wind picked up, cold on damp skin.

"I'm still here," Eärendil said into her hair. He'd failed her so terribly, but at least he could give her this reassurance.

"For now," she murmured, and got to her feet. She moved differently, now. Still graceful, but quick and nearly birdlike, as though she would take flight again at any moment. Eärendil watched her disappear below deck, but didn't move himself, even when it began to rain.


End file.
